May 21, 2014

Gary Moshimer

Dr.
Doug

When I got that brain tumor I hallucinated this crazy
doctor. Dr. Doug. He came into my hospital room after the other doctors had
left for the day. He was a fireplug, bald, said he’d played football. He spoke
around a fat unlit cigar. “We’re gonna kick the shit out of this fucker,” he
said.

He had a ray gun that he held to my head. He pulled the
trigger and it buzzed. “I’m radiating!” he said. “Die, you mother!”

Then I’d climb onto his back and he’d run down the hallways
with me, past nurses that never saw us, out the front door to his Porsche. He
put the top down and drove fast. We stopped and got soft ice cream. He said,
“Watch this,” and pulled a hairpiece from the glove box. He drove ninety, and
the hair flew off into a field.

He drove into the mountains and carried me on his back up
through the trees. We sat on a ledge and watched the sun set.

Then he drove me to his house. We lounged around his pool
with the torches going. His daughters swam and they flirted with me.

We did this every day.

Eventually I fell in love with the older girl, Mary. She had
long black hair and strange gray eyes that were almost silver. The secret
kisses were best when she came out of the water. She said we all return to
water. I took to sinking, not breathing, and she would pull me out. It went on
for hours that seemed like years. I told her when I was better I would marry
her.

But when my tumor shrank, Dr. Doug went away. I asked about
him, and was told they had no such doctor. I looked for his car out the window.

My mother took me home, and I brooded.

“Aren’t you happy?” she said. “You’re going to live.”

I wasn’t happy. There were people I missed. People I loved.
And the impossible speed, the sunsets. The pool by night, the cool hot kisses.
The sinking, breathless; the revival. I wanted it to go on forever.

I wasn’t supposed to drive, but I took the car and cruised
the rich neighborhoods, looking for them. I called out to many black-haired
girls, but none were her. I fell into many pools, but the wrong people saved
me.

Somewhere she waited. Until then I wouldn’t start to live.

CP

Gary
Moshimer has stories in Smokelong
Quarterly, Frigg, Word Riot, and many other places.